Nearly Like a Picture Print
by mahc
Summary: JedAbbey. Debbie Fiderer's POV. What? Where had that come from? It had been a mistake, coming there, she realized. She shouldn’t be witness to this moment. But her body leaned forward against her will to catch the First Lady’s response.


I've always enjoyed looking at Jed and Abbey from other characters' points of view. This story takes place during "Abu el Banat" and is seen from the POV of Debbie Fiderer. Many thanks to Linda M. for her gift of the official script – and for her hospitality on our recent visit to LA. I have included a couple of websites where you can view two Currier and Ives prints that seem likely to reflect what Jed's image of their family Christmases might be.

Nearly Like a Picture Print

A West Wing Story

by MAHC

POV: Debbie Fiderer

Spoilers: Abu el Banat

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Not mine.

In her year and a half serving as Personal Secretary to the President of the United States of America, Debbie Fiderer had found herself witness to many moments. Some moments chronicled momentous national events. Some captured decisions of historical significance. Some offered welcome and needed humor. And some revealed the tenuous balance of duty and family a man under such a global microscope must hold.

In the past six months they had run the gamut of every one of those moments. Each had been memorable. All had been noteworthy. But the most tested – and most agonizing – had to be that of balance. Ever since that day – ever since Zoey –

Debbie didn't have to hear rumors to wonder about the First Couple's strained relationship, didn't need to read between the lines in the newspapers when the First Lady stayed in New Hampshire for three months straight, or attended events solo, or chose not to appear with her husband at a major Party fundraiser. No, she didn't need those things because she saw all too easily for herself the near devastation the events of May had wrought in the lives of Jed and Abbey Bartlet.

But the wretched summer was over, and autumn had cooled tempers, and winter's approach brought the return of a strange sense of pseudo-normalcy to the White House. Abbey had returned from New Hampshire. The President had come back from whatever Purgatory he had abandoned himself to after Zoey's abduction and Abbey's retreat.

The air around them remained brittle, fragile, but at least they were in the same room again, sleeping – or so the rumors had it – in the same bed. What they all wouldn't give, though, to hear their famous banter, sharp with humor and innuendo, or blush at a nonchalant kiss or pat on the rear.

Not yet. Not yet.

But soon, Debbie hoped. Soon.

Tonight, however, her only goal was to get this particular moment over with. Quick in. Quick out. That was the plan. He would be in the family dining room now with his daughters, his son-in-law, his grandchildren – and his wife. Not the best timing, but that wasn't her fault, now, was it?

It should matter that he had asked her to do it, had specifically instructed her to bring him the papers for his signature as soon as they were ready. It should matter. But it didn't. It didn't in the least bit excuse her intrusion on his rare family time.

He had anticipated this evening, had tried not to show his excitement, had tried to mask it with complaints about their tardiness, with gruff observations of the girls' choices in husbands and boyfriends. But no one who really knew him was fooled. He couldn't wait for his clan to gather for Christmas dinner – even three weeks early, a concession to all of their unalterable schedules.

"_All three of my daughters in one place for Christmas," he had said to the room at large, then addressed Debbie specifically. "You've never seen that, have you?"_

"_No, sir, I haven't." She had replied. Not that she would have encountered many opportunities over the past 35 years to engage in the inner circle celebrations of the Bartlet family._

"_She's never seen it." Now he was talking to Abbey._

_His wife knew the game, too, and played along. "Maybe next year."_

"_What if she quits before then? She's flighty."_

_Debbie consciously kept her patented look of long-suffering, but both of them knew – perhaps all three – that if he was still there, she would be there. At least the bantering, a bit forced though it was, offered a welcome respite from the recent – and decidedly less forced – antagonism between the President and First Lady._

"_They'll be here tonight," Abbey was saying in pacification. "We'll be grateful for that."_

"_I'm grateful," the President acknowledged, then cut his eyes toward his secretary. "But Debbie thinks one night isn't a visit so much as a pit stop."_

_She threw the First Lady a quick look that absolved her of any authorship of that particular observation and smiled as the couple exited still throwing barbs at the expense of their in-laws._

Debbie took the stairs to the Residence with her usual confidence, although her actions did not quite reflect the inner feelings. She wondered what she'd find with just the family – without any audience to play to, to put on for. Then again, she had to admit that Jed and Abbey Bartlet rarely put on for anyone. What people got was the real thing.

She hoped the time together would heal some wounds that had festered for the past few months. Anger, fear, resentment. Deserved or undeserved, he had borne the brunt of it. Debbie was too close to judge, had seen too clearly the pain in his eyes to lay blame anywhere. She found little room in her heart for any emotions other than admiration, pride, and – he would hate this – pity. Dear Lord, the man had been tortured those days his family was gone – and even since.

Well, it wouldn't be Debbie Fiderer who kept them from being together, now. Quick in. Quick out. That was the plan.

She walked briskly toward the dining room, pausing only just before she gained the door to draw a breath and prepare her apology, but the First Lady's tone stopped her short of the threshold, and she took a moment to assess the conversation.

"He thought he was doing it alone, with you. He didn't understand what all the people were doing out there."

Debbie couldn't keep the grimace from her lips as she thought back to that afternoon when the President's grandson had balked about the Christmas Tree Lighting. Typically, the duty to tell him of their little complication became hers.

"_Is Doctor McNally in her office?" The President strode from the mural room, and Debbie had fallen into step with him._

"_I believe so. How about I send her in right after the Tree rehearsal?" Smooth, she thought, but not smooth enough._

"_Come again?"_

_Damn it. Why did this particular message have to fall to her? She had paid her dues that morning listening to the President hum "Sleigh Ride" for an entire hour._

"_Liz is concerned that Gus may find it overwhelming, with the cameras, and the crowds and all. We're going to practice."_

_Here is comes._

"_Flipping a switch?"_

_She kept her patience. Jed Bartlet's complete faith in his family's ability to tackle any challenge as securely as he did was well known. In his eyes, Little Gus would bound up the platform and relish the moment as much as his grandfather. "We're going to show him the platform, and the tree, and the switch certainly."_

_The President waved her off. "He'll be fine. Ellie can show him. She did it one year in New Hampshire."_

_Damn. With no other choice, Debbie gave him a pointed look, which he comprehended right away._

"_Ellie's not here, yet?"_

"_A topic for another time." Please._

_The President resigned himself to the inevitable. "All right. Push the rehearsal. I need to stop in Nancy McNally's – " He broke off, just now considering something. "Is Ellie coming?"_

"_She's working on it." She hoped._

_He plunged down the hall. "One would never know that the leaders of powerful nations respond to my call on a moment's notice," he complained.  
_

"_Not at first glance, sir, no."_

_Well, at least his perfect double take was worth the risk of the comment._

Debbie's mind returned to the present abruptly, catching the President in mid-sentence.

" – wasn't around, and the year before there was Tennessee and the calls to Belarus. I don't remember when it was just the five of us and weather and everybody in their slippers."

"We don't do that."

"We did." That was his rebuttal, almost petulant, childish.

"I was on call three straight Christmas Eves when Ellie was little. We've never been Currier and Ives."

Debbie winced at the bluntness of her words. True or not, there was something he needed at that moment, something he had lost and was grabbing frantically to regain. But Abbey wasn't giving it to him. The same tension that had crackled through the air ever since her return from self-exile still snapped, although Debbie thought – hoped – that the current was fading in intensity, at least a little.

Before Abbey had left, there was flat out anger, not hidden, not masked. But on her return, the façade was back. She played the good wife, even cooking for the Prime Minister when the White House staff was twiddling their thumbs at home during the Shutdown. But the burned connections between the First Couple were still raw, still smoldering.

Even now, Debbie heard the caution in both their voices.

"I'm putting together a panel on assisted suicide. If you've got any names – medical ethicists."

What? Where had that come from? It had been a mistake, coming there, she realized. She shouldn't be witness to this moment. But her body leaned forward against her will to catch the First Lady's response.

"Your position has changed?" The tone was wary, careful.

"Uh uh."

Surely this wasn't going –

"No syringe in the nightstand. It'll get ugly and that's that."

My God, it was. Debbie caught her breath, pushed back the lump that closed her throat. No, she shouldn't be there, shouldn't hear this moment of intimacy, of deep emotion. But something held her, brought back that terrible conversation earlier in the Oval.

_He hadn't wanted to talk with Toby, she knew that, but the Communications Director had caught him waiting for Gus to make his anticipated debut. Debbie hadn't meant to eavesdrop – not at all – but Charlie had a message from Leo, and she had eased the door to a crack to see if she might interrupt._

"_One in five patients requesting aid-in-dying has MS. One in five. You know what the questions sound like?"_

_The President's voice grew edgy, defensive. "I have a pretty good – "_

_Toby, with his usual sensitivity, broke in. "How long does the President think he has before his MS becomes debilitating? Do his doctors anticipate a speedy decline? Does he have a plan? Does the First Lady have four glass vials and a syringe in a lockbox in the nightstand?"_

_With each push, Debbie clenched her first. Damn Toby for doing this – ever, but especially now._

_She heard the hurt in the President's answer, even through his sarcasm. "She may chicken out. Maybe I'll call you."_

_Spinning on her heel, she grabbed Charlie and thrust the note into his hand. "Go in," she commanded._

"_But he's with Toby – "_

"_Now."_

_And the bodyman's interruption had mercifully ended the torture, at least for the moment, but Debbie knew the wound was deep._

Back in the Residence, she turned her attention to the conversation just beyond her sight. There was an awkward silence after the President's heartbreaking declaration, then his voice broke it, that strong, secure tone cracking, unsure. Tears burned her eyes at the sound.

"You gonna be there?"

He had to ask? What the hell had happened to them, these two people who a year ago had seemed to lead magically connected lives?

A pause. Long. Too long. Say yes, damn it, Debbie pushed. Please, dear God, say –

"Yeah." The answer was as ragged and as broken as his plea.

A chair squeaked on the floor. Debbie jerked to back away. No way in hell was she going to be caught eavesdropping on _this_ conversation.

"Abbey?" She had never heard this tone from that voice, never witnessed, even at a distance, this man on the verge of emotional collapse. Even when Zoey was missing, he was the strong one, he was the disciplined one. Now, the devastation, the plea ripped through her heart – and she had long ago thought her heart had become un-rippable.

After a moment, the First Lady emerged looking shaken and pale. Debbie braced for the rage at her presence, but Abigail Bartlet didn't seem to notice. Instead, she stopped and turned back toward the room.

"Gus is still up. Go say goodnight."

No verbal answer came from the President, but he must have responded some way because a moment later she was gone.

_In the end, it had been Zoey who accompanied her father into the December chill to light the tree. And it certainly was a joy to see her relaxed and at ease as she took his arm and they strolled in front of thrilled crowd of 7,000 plus for the annual tradition that started during the Benjamin Harrison Administration._

Something had happened, though, between that moment and the postponed family dinner. It was clear that only the President and First Lady had waited in the dining room. And now only the President remained.

One. Two. Three. Four. Debbie counted off the seconds, wondering what she might see if she entered the room, more than halfway expecting to hear sobs.

Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Should she stay, follow his directions or leave him in peace, leave him to the barrage of tortured emotions he must be combating at the moment?

Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Sixty. She drew a breath, gathered the papers in her hand as evidence of her legitimacy, and stepped forward.

"Mister President?"

He flinched, but only slightly. Surely in five years he had become used to the constant-ness of being on duty. Without turning, he acknowledged her.

"Yeah." He couldn't thin out the emotion in his voice, but made a valiant attempt, nevertheless.

"I'm really sorry to interrupt your dinner, sir."

A humorless laugh was her answer. He kept his back to her.

"If you don't mind my asking, where is everyone?" Maybe he would think she had just walked up.

"Listening to the singers," he supplied. "And – other things."

All business, she reminded herself, fighting back the instinct to wrap her arms around his slumped shoulders in comfort. "Well, I have the papers you needed. All ready to sign like you asked."

"Oh. Right." He straightened a bit and cleared his throat, pulling a touch of energy to his voice, a spark of interest, of diversion perhaps. "Yes."

Finally, he turned, and it took every dramatic skill she possessed not to wince at the raw emotion still painted on those handsome features. He had not cried, but his eyes bore the redness of a fight narrowly won against the tears. Her gaze caught the smudge of lipstick on his forehead, and she pictured the tortured kiss that must have created it, along with the thumb brush that automatically followed. They had all been witness to similar caresses in happier times.

"Right there," she pointed out, more for her own distraction than to direct him, blustering over the trembling in her voice.

He accepted her gift gratefully, bending his head over the paper. Her eyes were drawn to the gray that had interloped more boldly now through the thick blonde-brown hair. The past year alone had been enough to turn all of their heads white.

With the familiar bold script, he affixed his name to the documents and handed them back to her, deliberately avoiding her gaze.

Something overcame her then, sabotaged her well-practiced nonchalance and abandoned her to the impulses of a less-controlled person. Before she knew it, she had called his name. Well, not his name, of course. Not Jed certainly. Not even Josiah. But the name by which everyone viewed him – would always view him.

"Mister President."

His eyes rose out of habit before he could stop himself, and she fought not to recoil again at the pain that burned in his gaze. But in that moment they both read each other perfectly. She admitted her guilt silently. He acknowledged her admittance with an intensity that took her breath. She waited for the anger, braced for the reprimand for stealing this moment. But neither came. His eyes held hers, conceding the turmoil but offering reassurance at the same time. Even weakened by family conflict, even hurt by physical and emotional threats, this man was powerful.

She wanted to ask him how he felt. She wanted to tell him she knew he was hurting, wanted to remind him how much the country loved him, to count off how many calls and emails and cards they had received in comfort and support while Zoey was missing. Wanted to tell him she thought he was an amazing person, an incredible leader – a good man.

But once those blue eyes were turned on her, everything she had intended to say vanished. Eventually, she reminded herself to breathe, and used that air to say the only thing she could.

"Merry Christmas, Mister President."

It took a moment, but eventually he smiled, not the trademark Bartlet grin that he threw generously at close friends and distant acquaintances equally. This smile showed no teeth, pushed no sparkle to the eyes. This smile was a tired smile of gratitude.

"Thank you, Mrs. Fiderer," he said slowly, formally.

It occurred to her, then, that she hadn't wanted this job, had obfuscated and avoided Charlie's irritating persistence for weeks until he forced her hand. Then, she had met Josiah Bartlet, and even through a drug-induced haze, that same instinct that made her pluck a raw, inexperienced young messenger applicant from the employment pool to be personal aid to the President had told her this was one opportunity she could not miss. This was a man whose like would not be seen again in their lifetimes.

But she didn't share that with him. "Ellie's here," she offered, instead.

He nodded, eyes warming. "She is."

"Sans guitar player and purple van."

That brought a smile.

"If there's anything I can – "

But he stood suddenly and broke the moment. "I think," he declared a little too loudly, "that a certain little monster and I have a Christmas tree to light."

"But you and Zoey – "

"That was for show. This will just be for us."

"Yes, sir."

Another moment of silence drifted between them, the quiet amplified by their mutual conflict over whether to break it or to let it fester. As they stood staring past each other, Debbie realized that this was yet another moment, one she would tuck away in that treasured place for those memories that exceeded all others.

Finally, he shifted so their eyes met again, and the gratitude and love behind his gaze melted any lingering hesitancies she still clung to. With a gentle nod, he dismissed her and she angled for the end of the corridor.

"Debbie."

His soft command drew her back, and she turned.

"Sir?"

"Merry Christmas."

It was done. The papers signed. The moment met. And now she had to trust their evening to them – or perhaps even fate.

But halfway to the stairs, Debbie stopped with a hot wave of frustration and stared at the bundle in her hands. One page. Glaring. White. Blank. One page he had missed – or she had not pointed out. She had been so focused on him, on how he was, that she had not concentrated enough on the task assigned her. Briefly, she debated forging it. He would never know, right? Or maybe Margaret could do it. She really did have his signature down cold. But that scenario lasted only a nanosecond or two before a vision of her next life as Personal Secretary to Helga of Cell Block C persuaded her quickly against that choice.

With reluctance, she trudged back to the Residence, loathe to face him again. Quick in. Quick out. Right.

Although she had been gone only a moment, when she returned, the lamps had been dimmed, and most of the light now glowed from the expansive window at the end of the hall. At first, Debbie wasn't sure he was even there still, but a soft sound focused her eyes on the forms silhouetted in the window.

Her first thought was that they fit perfectly. Her second was that maybe it wouldn't be so bad to forge that note after all. Nothing should interrupt this moment that had been way too long coming.

They stood embraced, the First Lady's hands cradling her husband's face, his arms around her waist. Their foreheads pressed together, and, even though she wasn't close enough, and it wasn't bright enough to see their expressions, Debbie heard the emotion thick in their low tones.

Tears touched her eyes as she heard the President breathe his wife's name, relief raw in that one whispered word. She wiped vainly at the moisture, bit her lip as she watched his shoulders slump in relief.

Slowly, she backed out. She had witnessed far too many moments of intimacy this night. But, pausing at the door, she allowed herself one more moment, and smiled as it stole her one last glimpse of lips touching.

It would have been nearly like a picture print. Maybe not Currier and Ives, but a moment to capture. A moment of forgiveness. Of reunion.

Of love.

"There's a happy feeling

Nothing in the world can buy,

When they pass around the coffee

And the pumpkin pie.

It'll nearly be like a picture print

By Currier and Ives.

These wonderful things are the things

We remember all through our lives."

"Sleigh Ride"

Leroy Anderson and Mitchell Parish

1948/50

"American Homestead Winter"

Currier and Ives lithograph

1868

http/home. Ingleside Winter"

Currier and Ives lithograph

http/home. 


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